


Trial

by yeaka



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Porn, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Roleplay, porn stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 11:28:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14401212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Eönwë’s done experimenting, but Melkor has more tricks up his sleeve.





	Trial

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So for once I was really confused tagging this. Hopefully that’s sufficient? Melkor runs an unrealistic porn studio and they’re acting in it, there you go, **you’ve been warned.**
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Silmarillion or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The elevator is conspicuously empty, and when Eönwë clicks the button for the penthouse, it lights up in waiting for his access code. He types it in with as much trepidation as he felt the first time he watched Mairon input each single digit. He knew then that this rendezvous was questionable at best, but Mairon had smiled so slickly and promised there was no better way to explore the enlightening, enrapturing physical aspects of their corporeal forms. Eönwë, tight lipped, had listened.

And now he always goes alone, because the scenes he once tried with Mairon were unsettling and strange. Mairon once told him, bundled under the sheets in a heady afterglow, that he was a poor partner anyway. Nothing like _Melkor_. Eönwë’s only seen a few of Melkor’s tapes. He’d pressed the first one into the machine, settled back on the couch, and watched Mairon bow to his master in a way that would scandalize the Valar council. Surely, Manwë would never approve. Neither the acts nor the film. Eönwë knows that, and he’s swum in denial long enough.

The elevator clicks to its final stop, the elaborate golden doors peeling back to reveal the sleek white lines of Melkor’s studio. The place is light, airy, and deceptively innocent. The reception room is empty, the walls lined in tasteful art. Eönwë makes his way down the corridor and lets himself right into Melkor’s office.

Often times, Eönwë will find his ‘boss’ already in the middle of something, despite Eönwë’s appointments. It’s not unusual to find Mairon stretched out along his Vala’s desk, coiling cooing for Melkor’s attention. Today the desk is bare, save for a stack of contracts Melkor is poring over. He looks up at Eönwë’s entrance, an inviting grin stretched across his lips. Eönwë’s learned just how false that smile can be, but he’s in far too deep to ever bring his suspicions in front of Manwë.

He comes to sit in the oak chair set before Melkor’s desk, and before Melkor can pass him tonight’s script, Eönwë announces, “I will not be performing this evening.”

A flash of anger erupts behind Melkor’s dark eyes, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. Melkor’s expression dips into a careful frown. He asks conversationally, “Is that so?”

“Yes. While I appreciate the opportunity and discretion you have shown me, I have decided that this particular avenue of physical experimentation is not what I was looking for.” He planned this out exactingly, phrasing it in such a way that both avoids offense and remains firm. Melkor is silent for a moment. In anticipation of a rebuttal, Eönwë adds, “I must also consider Manwë’s wishes.”

His eyes alight again, Melkor hums, “A shame. _I_ afford my Maiar more freedom with the gifts our lord has given us.”

Eönwë nods his head in acknowledgement, though he knows that Melkor cares little for Eru. He also knows that Melkor has built an empire off his Maiar’s beauty, along with the currency and prestige that holds such sway with elves and mortals. His business is exhaustively exclusive, and the pool of clients allowed to view his wares is well maintained and monitored. The likelihood of Manwë ever coming across such wares is remote, but still, it weighs on Eönwë’s mind.

Besides that, the experience has lots its ephemeral appeal. What physical delights he does experience come quick and fleeting, infinitely artificial, and they leave him hollow and still wanting. For a good stretch, Melkor seems to read this in him, peering steadily across the tabletop until Eönwë is just on the verge of leaving.

Then Melkor tells him quietly, “You may leave if you wish; there is always a clause in the contracts for such eventualities. But I would ask you to view your costar for tonight before you choose to walk away.”

Merely to be polite, Eönwë nods. He knows it won’t make any difference. Melkor has brought him a number of subjects, all lovely in their own right, holding at least some appeal. None have matched Mairon’s attractiveness, yet Mairon leaves a foul taste in Eönwë’s mouth. Still, Eönwë has no wish to burn this bridge, and he follows when Melkor rises and strolls from the office.

The hallway outside is lined with labeled doors, but there’s only one that Eönwë’s ever entered. He made his conditions clear, and Melkor respected that—he wasn’t even shown the larger operations, where Eönwë’s heard many other Maiar attend to the cameras. Eönwë pauses at the familiar door, but Melkor, instead, ushers him through the one next to it: into the adjacent viewing room, hidden behind a two-way mirror.

Only Melkor himself ever watched Eönwë. At least, that’s what he was told, and he does believe it. It was necessary, Melkor said, to have someone able to provide live direction. He never gave it. Eönwë always followed the scripts he was provided with, as did his ‘costars’. He settles now behind the glass and peers into the grand bedroom beyond.

The room is setup as usual, the furnishings occasionally changing but the core the same: the enormous, focal-point bed pushed up against the wall in the center of the room, the tall, starlit windows arching up on either side of it, the toy-lined bookshelf in the corner and the fully equipped nightstand within easy reach. Semi-concealed cameras are located everywhere, covering all angles. On the very edge of the bed, Eönwë’s costar sits.

Eönwë’s eyes widen around the edges. He had thought Mairon’s body was the best that he could hope for. The one that waits for him is ten times as entrancing. More surprising, it’s an elf, one of the Noldor, Eönwë thinks, but with the light of Eru in his face. His skin is creamy, licked a warmer hue in the dimmed light, and his hair is pitch black like the velvet butterflies that dot the sunset near Eönwë’s home. It flows, long and straight, shimmering like silk, down his slender shoulders. His body is trim but taught, fit, and Eönwë can see the muscle in his thighs, spread open before one of the cameras mounted on a footstool. The elf wears traditional robes, painted lavender and blue, and they drape down his shoulders enough to show a tantalizing peak at his chiseled chest. But they’re also drawn up around his lap, exposing everything below. He’s perched on folded knees, both hands at work. One holds up his shaft, and the other presses beneath it, wet fingers idly thrusting in and out of his waiting body. His hooded eyes gaze at the camera in a strangely demure, wistful stare, while his body prepares itself for the taking.

Eönwë’s breath has caught. He doesn’t realize it, doesn’t even remember the reality of the separated room he stands in, until Melkor purrs, “Exquisite, is he not?” 

Eönwë nods. He can’t do anymore—can’t tear himself away from the vision laid out before him. The elf shudders as though he’s heard his patron’s complement, and he bites his bottom lip as he thrusts two fingers into himself at once. Eönwë’s never once purchased one of Melkor’s films—only seen what he was given. But the thought comes to him now—he’d like to see this finished copy, the zoomed in view of the elf’s preparation, the enhanced picture with all its vivid details. A Maiar’s senses are of the highest caliber, but he knows that Melkor’s work can exceed even that.

Melkor tells him, “If he looks familiar to you, that is because he is one of Fëanáro’s sons. I would have paid a pretty price for Fëanáro himself, or even the one that looks more like him, but though this is not Fëanáro’s greatest gem, he is, I think, the best suited for _you._ As soon as he came into my office, I knew just the Maia to give him to.”

Eönwë barely hears Melkor’s words. He can, perhaps, see some of the resemblance to Fëanáro, but Eönwë’s had few dealings with the son of the Noldor’s lord, and on the few occasions that he did, he found the famous blacksmith to be somewhat arrogant and distasteful. Yet the elf seated in Melkor’s studio is perhaps the most striking creature Eönwë’s ever seen. Melkor smoothly adds, “He is a musician, you know. It is amazing where the firstborn, limited as they are, will turn for inspiration. He was quite pleased when I offered to pair him with a Maia, actually. I do hope you will not disappoint him.”

Eönwë’s throat feels dry. Eönwë knows he’s being baited, but the bait is so intensely alluring. In the corner of his eyes, he sees Melkor turn away from the magnificent view, watching Eönwë instead. He casually continues, “In case you are curious, he is a switch, but I have booked him to bottom for you. And as delicate as he appears, you will be pleased to learn that he is a trained warrior—you can do whatever you like with him, and he will weather it admirably. He was thoroughly checked. You will not even need to use protection.”

Eönwë had been so sure he would refuse. But he finds himself begrudgingly asking, never once looking away from the scene before him, “What is the script?” 

“I have decided to forgo any written dialogue for this event—I entirely agree with you, Eönwë; your latest films have been far too stiff and stilted. No one purchases these things for the story, but I would still like to aim for a more authentic feel. Thus, I suggest that we try an ‘adlib’ run, as they call it.”

Eönwë nods vacantly. While his memory is excellent, he could foresee having trouble recalling and reciting lines when faced with such distraction. 

Melkor explains, “A loose story will suffice. Kanafinwë—your lovely costar—has agreed to play a naughty elf who has defied the Valar, and you have been sent to punish him. He will be trading his body for forgiveness.”

The outline sounds so very _Melkor_ —Eönwë has seen him ‘punish’ Mairon for the camera a number of times. Yet in the context of this elf—of _Kanafinwë_ —Eönwë could see it. Or wants to see it. He still instinctively notes, “Manwë would never sanction such punishment.” 

“Perhaps not,” Melkor muses, “But Kanafinwë seemed quite interested in the idea. And the usual terms will apply—only the two of you in the room; the cameras will be controlled remotely. As always, I would be happy to provide you with a finished copy of the film once it has been edited, along with a complementary clip of this preparation of his. Even the reel of his audition tape, should you so decide to stay with us.”

It’s ultimately that, the promise of _more_ of this stunning vision, that goads Eönwë into agreeing, “Very well.” Melkor dips his head politely, but Eönwë can see the smirk simmering beneath the surface. Eönwë can’t begrudge him it. The game was well played, and Melkor had an undeniably winning hand. 

With a final look at the ongoing show, Eönwë leaves the viewing room. He pauses before the bedroom, taking a quick minute to divorce himself of guilt, of the fear of Manwë’s disapproval, and instead allows his own traitorous desires. Then he twists the handle. He thinks to knock, but he’s never done so before, and surely the elf knows he’s coming. 

As soon as Eönwë’s slipped inside the room, Kanafinwë’s eyes flicker over to him, even more stunning without the barrier of glass. Eönwë closes the door and watches Kanafinwë drop all his robes back into place. He smoothes them out over his lap, hiding the temptation below, and sits with the sort of perfect posture that denotes noble birth. Eönwë hesitates. It takes him some time to manage just, “Hello.”

Kanafinwë dons a soft smile and answers, “Hello.” His voice is strong, soothing, lilting—Melkor mentioned music, and Eönwë can hear it now; he imagines Kanafinwë’s voice was built for song. Then Kanafinwë averts his eyes, heavy gaze cast downward. Eönwë understands: the scene’s already started. As much as Eönwë wants to hear _more_ , wants to drift next to Kanafinwë and speak to him, learn of him, that isn’t what they’re here for. Perhaps Kanafinwë even has other plans for the night, and he merely wishes to get on with his task. 

Eönwë pointedly doesn’t look at the cameras. It’s strange enough as it is, giving up all pretense, skipping simple niceties for the sake of carnal fulfillment. Eönwë strolls past them, nearing the bed, and when he stops there, Kanafinwë flinches. It gives Eönwë a sharp spike of worry, but he swiftly reminds himself that that’s merely the story—Kanafinwë looked perfectly fine, confident and composed, only a few seconds ago. Now he bows low over the bed, letting his long hair spill down across the sheets, while he murmurs piteously, “I apologize, O great Maia, for presuming to appear here, upon the bed of my betters.” His voice is softer now, no longer as powerful, but it’s taken on a pretty tone. Eönwë drinks it in.

And when Kanafinwë doesn’t rise, Eönwë reaches out to slip a hand beneath his chin. Kanafinwë’s flesh is both warm and silken. Eönwë tilts him up to connect their eyes. There’s an instant chemistry that almost takes Eönwë aback, but he remembers his contract, his promise to Melkor. He remains in character. For that promise, for the return of subtle sex and the fascinating ability to review it afterwards, Eönwë takes on the role of a stern deity. He forces himself to frown at Kanafinwë, which indeed takes effort. He drawls, “You have disappointed me, Elf. Do you know what you have done?” In the moment, with Kanafinwë’s face in his hands, Eönwë can’t conceive of any sins. 

Kanafinwë gives no specifics either, only answers forlornly, “I am a bad elf indeed, my lord. I have been very, very... _naughty._ ” His mouth seems to caress the word, cooing it out in broken deference. Usually, Melkor’s scripts leave much to be desired. The stories Eönwë acts out are ludicrous and hardly to be believed. But Kanafinwë plays the part well; every bit of him seems to wilt before Eönwë, yet in a strangely tantalizing way. His lashes lower farther as he murmurs, “I crave forgiveness, though. I beg it of you. I will say anything, do anything you ask. I wish now to be a good elf, and I will do only that which pleases you.”

This scene, perhaps, isn’t _too_ ludicrous, though of course, it’s manifesting all wrong. Eönwë still finds it too easy to ask, “What has a simple elf to offer a Maia?”

Eönwë can guess, and sure enough, Kanafinwë smoothly answers, “My body is all I have to give. But I offer it to you nonetheless.”

Eönwë’s mouth is dry again. He asks, “And what would you have me do with it?”

“Punish me,” Kanafinwë breathes. He says it in such earnest that Eönwë could almost believe he truly _wants_ to be treated harshly. He stops to make a husky noise somewhere between a whimper and a moan, then he begs on, “Please, my lord. I cannot stand it any longer. I need to be punished. I _want_ to be punished.” He even leans forward, tilting his face to nuzzle his cheek against Eönwë’s palm. Eönwë’s breath has quickened.

It’s nothing like the scenes he’s seen of Mairon begging for Melkor’s whip. Mairon would saunter in and hiss his desires, and Melkor would slap him for it and drag him across the room by his fiery hair. The thought of treating this elf that way horrifies Eönwë. Kanafinwë asks for his discipline with such grace. He feels so delicate against Eönwë’s hand, though Eönwë’s seen and heard his strength. It takes Eönwë too long to decide how he’ll take their story—Melkor will have to edit out his pause. 

Finally, he lifts his hand to card through Kanafinwë’s hair. It feels every bit as good as it looks, and when he wraps it around his fingers, Kanafinwë cries out and arches back, wincing as though in pain. It gives Eönwë a pang of guilt, though he’s sure it’s just for the cameras—he’s careful not to tug too hard. He isn’t a rough being, even here, even when Melkor’s scripts occasionally call for it. That’s one aspect of physicality he’s never wished to explore. But he pretends otherwise, and he guides Kanafinwë slowly forward by it, giving enough time for Kanafinwë to follow his movements. 

Holding Kanafinwë at the very edge of the bed, Eönwë asks, both idle and critical, “Are you so vain, Elf, that you think your petty form could please a Maia?” Kanafinwë winces again. Eönwë wants to kiss his brow and tell him that his beauty is breath-taking and pleases Eönwë immensely. Outside of this odd arrangement, he would be honoured to receive such a gift.

Inside their fantasy, Kanafinwë breathes, “No, my lord. I know that I am but a lowly animal to you.”

When he shifts forward, Eönwë automatically steps back. It gives room for Kanafinwë to slink off the bed—he climbs down onto the floor with absolute elegance. His robes slip further down his shoulders as he goes, revealing more and more of his enticing flesh. He comes to kneel at Eönwë’s feet, and there he spreads his folded legs, enough that his knees poke out the sides of his robes. His hands land between them, which only draws the fabric farther up his thighs. It looks like he’s only one step away from being _bare_. Though Eönwë wants that, he doesn’t order it just yet. When he watches these tapes over, he always prefers when that reveal is drawn out and savoured.

Arching forward into Eönwë’s body, Kanafinwë’s lips hover just before the growing bulge in Eönwë’s robes. Eönwë can’t help but be embarrassed by the tented fabric, but it would be impossible not to react to such a creature. Gaze firmly fixed on that tent, Kanafinwë whispers, “I would serve you... or am I unworthy of even that?”

“No.” The word’s left Eönwë before he can even think of it. But that seems to be just what Kanafinwë’s looking for. He smiles, and perhaps it’s meant to look sad or relieved. Here, Kanafinwë’s acting fails him; to Eönwë, he looks _pleased_.

He reaches slowly for the sash at Eönwë’s waist. Eönwë patiently allows him to undo the knots, to draw it back, to let Eönwë’s robes fall open. The white material slips across his chest, revealing the long line of his chiseled abdomen. He wears no undergarments beneath—though he’d meant to break off their relations, he hadn’t discounted Melkor’s sway entirely. Kanafinwë seems to approve of the choice. He spends a long moment eyeing Eönwë’s body, trailing all the way down from head to feet. Then his pink tongue peeks out to trace his lips, and finally, he ducks forward.

He places a chaste kiss to the head of Eönwë’s hard cock. It’s already jutting out, stiff and eager to be free. It fills more as Kanafinwë soft lips press into it. Kanafinwë lets the kiss become messy, crude and debauched, before he devolves into simply licking it. His tongue reaches out to flatten along the underside, dragging up and twisting along the top, tracing each vein. Eönwë shudders and lets his head fall back, lets the pleasure snake through him. _This_ is what he came for. When he thinks of the cameras capturing the scene, of making this moment as immortal as the rest of him, his body thrums with mounting interest. It shouldn’t do so, but when he’s in these throes, the cameras _excite_ him. He spent so long watching over Eru’s many children, and now it’s finally his turn to be watched.

He brings himself back down when he feels Kanafinwë’s lithe fingers wrap around his base. He returns his attention to the elf kneeling before him. Kanafinwë’s eyes meet his gaze, burning hotter than their scene should allow. But the illusion of these scenes is never perfect. Kanafinwë opens his mouth wide around the tip, and then he’s sliding down the length of Eönwë’s cock with expert ease.

It’s _wonderful_. Everything that Eönwë could ask for. He never understood how _sensitive_ corporeal bodies could be until he followed Mairon here, but the other games that he played were nothing compare to this. It isn’t just the heat of Kanafinwë’s mouth or the tightness of his throat, but the view of him, the look within his eyes, even the way he smells. He takes Eönwë all the way down. When his parted lips reach his closed fist, his hand falls away, and he continues on. Eönwë can imagine how difficult that must be and remains stock still for it. He watches, awed, as Kanafinwë reaches Eönwë’s body and burrows into his stomach, nose buried in the coarse hair above Eönwë’s cock. There Kanafinwë shivers, clearly struggling to adjust, and each time he swallows Eönwë feels an intense spark of _pleasure_. The velvety surface of Kanafinwë’s tongue is ecstasy. There’s the faintest, dull scrape of Kanafinwë’s teeth, but Kanafinwë seems determined to minimize that part. He lets his eyes fall closed, and he takes a shuddering breath that Eönwë feels every part of. Then he sucks with all his might, and Eönwë can’t stop himself from crying out, both hands darting into Kanafinwë’s hair. 

He doesn’t hold Kanafinwë down. He’s grateful when Kanafinwë slowly starts to slide away, only to thrust back on, whining around his mouthful as he’s impaled to the root. Another pause, another bought of glorious suction, and he begins again. He works himself into a trying rhythm, fucking himself on Eönwë’s cock harder and faster than what must be comfortable. Eönwë loosely holds onto his hair but does no more. Eönwë’s seen Melkor fuck Mairon’s mouth with abandon, pounding into him until saliva streams down his chin and tears pour down his cheeks. Eönwë could never be like that. Nor could he do to any elf what Mairon does to his many patrons. Eönwë doesn’t _have_ to do anything, because Kanafinwë services him so well. Kanafinwë brings Eönwë to the very edge faster than anyone ever has. All Eönwë wants to do is pull out and splatter Kanafinwë’s handsome face with the seed that Eru’s given him. Or maybe to burst down Kanafinwë’s wondrous throat and feel him swallow every drop. But this body does have limitations, and Eönwë knows that if he spends himself now, he’ll have too wait too long to feel the rest of Kanafinwë. Melkor always wants that. Eönwë even saw Kanafinwë preparing for it. It would be a shame to let those efforts go to waste.

Against his own wishes, Eönwë orders, “Stop.” The word comes out sharp, but it works: Kanafinwë instantly obeys. He pulls off of Eönwë’s cock with a wet ‘pop,’ his mouth still hanging open and slick with spit around the edges. Before he can say anything, Eönwë taps beneath his chin. Kanafinwë rises without ever breaking eye contact. Eönwë doesn’t break it either. 

Kanafinwë’s robes are even more loosely tied than his own were. When he pulls at Kanafinwë’s sash, it comes swiftly undone, leaving Kanafinwë’s robes to part wide around him. Eönwë pushes them the rest of the way down, efficiently stripping Kanafinwë while Kanafinwë stands obediently still. When Kanafinwë is naked, his robes a pool at his feet, his body truly bare of everything but the few black locks that drape over one shoulder, Eönwë needs another moment just to breathe it in. It’s every bit as beautiful as Eönwë imagined. Under Eönwë’s scrutiny, Kanafinwë shifts his weight, angling his body towards the camera across the way. Eönwë’s glad of it. He knows he’ll want this view later: something he can conjure up any time he wishes.

He’s bizarrely interested to know what it looks like with his own body in the picture. He wants to see how they look together. But that will come later, and in the moment, Kanafinwë asks, simpering with an edge of hope, “Will you claim me, my lord?”

It’s no question now. Eönwë steps forward and pushes lightly at Kanafinwë’s hips—Kanafinwë takes the hint and moves backwards, falling down onto the bed. When he lands, he arranges himself, fully laid out for the camera mounted in the ceiling. Head cushioned on one of the many pillows, Kanafinwë looks to Eönwë. Eönwë follows. 

Climbing up onto the bed, he leaves his own robes hanging off him. His instinct is to reach for the bottles in the nightstand that are required for entering such bodies from behind, but he knows that Kanafinwë is ready now. It occurs to him that that might be Melkor’s plan—that this scene be made to look as though Eönwë’s claiming a poor, helpless elf without mercy, entering them with no such preparation. Eönwë would never do so, though he knows Melkor and Mairon lust for such rough treatment. Eönwë can’t even bring himself to speak the cruel lines that would provide such story. Instead, he simply climbs between Kanafinwë’s open legs and hikes each one over his thighs. 

He can see the wetness around Kanafinwë’s hole. Staring at that area, dark and rosy and so _forbidden_ , mounts Eönwë’s lust. Kanafinwë is truly spectacular from every angle. Melkor will have a hard time editing this piece for that very reason. Eönwë wonders vaguely if he could be permitted to glimpse the raw footage and help make such decisions. 

Kanafinwë’s cock lies hard and wanting on his stomach. Neither of them make any move for it. But Eönwë grips his own shaft and angles it between Kanafinwë’s legs, drawing it teasingly along the area first. He taps Kanafinwë’s thighs and nudges beneath Kanafinwë’s sac, tracing the puckered brim of Kanafinwë’s hole. Kanafinwë finally whispers, sounding hungry and wanton, “Please, Maia... use my body for your pleasure.”

“If you are a good elf,” Eönwë concedes, “I will allow you pleasure as well.”

Kanafinwë’s lip twitches, but he manages to restrain his smile. “You are too kind, my lord. You know that I have defied you... that I am...”

“Naughty,” Eönwë provides, “But I am a merciful god. If you give yourself to me, then your own needs will not be forgotten, for I treat my belongings well.” 

Kanafinwë hesitates. For the first time, it seems he doesn’t know what to say. Finally, he settles on a simple, “I am honoured.” And he spreads his legs wider, clearly indicating that he’d like to be filled.

Eönwë obliges. He presses forward, pushing into Kanafinwë’s fluttering entrance until it widens enough to take him. The head of his cock pops inside, and the sudden swell of heat and tightness makes Eönwë groan with pleasure. It’s even better than Kanafinwë’s mouth—something that he’d thought impossible. He rocks his hips and feeds Kanafinwë a little more, more still, gradually sinking deeper, though Kanafinwë begs him, “ _Please_.” Eönwë still takes his time, still takes his care. He relishes each moment. Kanafinwë’s walls clench and release around him, sucking him further in. Eönwë presses to the hilt, until his entire cock’s swallowed up in Kanafinwë’s pliant body.

Eönwë wants to do more. He wants to touch _everything_. He wants to let his hands roam all over Kanafinwë’s luscious body, but he knows that leaning in now would obscure the ceiling camera’s view and Melkor would be displeased. Despite everything, he never likes to disappoint a Vala, no more than Kanafinwë can seem to fail Eönwë. So Eönwë simply sits back and lets Kanafinwë writhe on his cock. Kanafinwë does a marvelous job of it. He arches up, tosses back his head, parts his glistening lips and moans beautifully. His fingers fist in the sheets, his thighs tense over Eönwë’s lap. Eönwë slides his hands appreciatively over Kanafinwë’s hips but can’t bring himself to leave any bruises. Melkor or Mairon would surely leave their mark—would dig in the grooves of their teeth and nails. Eönwë hopes that Kanafinwë never accepts a session with them.

A part of Eönwë, one dark and difficult to understand, wants Kanafinwë to reject any sessions with _anyone_ else, but of course, that isn’t realistic. They don’t do this to form loyalties. Eönwë forcibly pushes such jealousies from his mind and focuses instead on the ardour of the moment.

Holding Kanafinwë’s hips up, Eönwë rocks back, then thrusts inside, withdrawing and burying himself once again in Kanafinwë’s channel. Kanafinwë cries out and squirms but begs hoarser, “Please, ahhh...” So Eönwë does so. He proceeds to take Kanafinwë in deep, rhythmic thrusts that leave him dizzy with _want_. Kanafinwë takes each thrust so perfectly. He looks up at Eönwë through thickly dilated eyes, cheeks flushing steadily darker. Each thrust seems to undo him a little more, and soon, his breath is hitching with each one. He even forgets his pleading, just watches Eönwë with a hazy, addicting sort of fire.

When it becomes too much, Eönwë pulls out. Kanafinwë whines, drawing his thighs together and squirming, but Eönwë isn’t done. He orders, “Turn over,” and Kanafinwë pauses before submissively rolling onto his side. Before he can lay back down onto his stomach, Eönwë draws him up onto all fours. Kanafinwë stays where he’s put. As Eönwë settles back, admiring the new view of Kanafinwë’s tight rear, Kanafinwë draws his hair over his shoulder. A few stray stands stay glued to his back with the thin sheen of sweat between his shoulder blades. Eönwë intends to cause far more. 

He spreads Kanafinwë’s cheeks open with both hands, then pushes back inside. Kanafinwë groans as his body welcomes Eönwë home. Eönwë manages to get impossibly deeper with the new angle, and he quickly resumes his pace. He fucks Kanafinwë harder than before, hands clutching his hips to hold him up, but Kanafinwë remains admirably steady. He takes the ruthless pounding that Eönwë gives him. Eönwë would like to go slower, perhaps, to make every push count, but that wouldn’t fit the scene, and this first time with Kanafinwë, he desires Kanafinwë too much to relent. Kanafinwë makes him harder than anyone ever has.

Kanafinwë drives him to his edge sooner than he’d like. He hovers near it, holding back only by the strength of a Maia. Occasionally, he can feel Kanafinwë’s cock slap back against his thighs, swinging forgotten between Kanafinwë’s legs, but Eönwë knows not to touch it. An elf couldn’t have his stamina and would surely finish if stroked. Eönwë goes until Kanafinwë’s head is bowed and his legs are lightly trembling, and then Eönwë ducks to reach an arm beneath him.

Eönwë hauls Kanafinwë up, flattening Kanafinwë’s back into his chest. The camera on the headboard must have a scrumptious view. Eönwë wraps his arms around Kanafinwë and takes the liberties he wants while his cock keeps plowing into Kanafinwë’s ass. Kanafinwë arches into him and moans so gorgeously. Eönwë’s captivated.

Eönwë plays with each little detail. He pinches Kanafinwë’s pebbled nipples and rubs Kanafinwë’s breast, kneading the tight flesh as he mouths along the shell of Kanafinwë’s ear. He strokes along Kanafinwë’s waist and stomach, grinding his heel in just above Kanafinwë’s cock. Kanafinwë gasps, “Maia, please... mercy!”

Eönwë gives Kanafinwë’s shoulder a loving kiss and accommodates him. Eönwë finally curls his fingers around Kanafinwë’s impressive cock, and he gives it several vigorous strokes, just enough to make Kanafinwë scream. Kanafinwë shrieks as his seed spurts out to paint the blankets. Eönwë pumps him through it, milking out the end. Shivering and groaning, Kanafinwë sinks weakly into his arms. 

Eönwë gives him a moment to recover, then shoves him forward, pushing him back down into the bed. More than ready, Eönwë pulls out just in time to splatter his own load across Kanafinwë’s handsome back. The sight of Kanafinwë’s fucked-open hole helps intensify his orgasm. Eönwë reaches a giddy height amidst a sea of pleasure, more satisfying than anything he’s ever felt.

Even while he’s coming down again, he’s pleasantly satiated. He feels limp and distinctly _good_. He luxuriates in that until he remembers their story. Then he murmurs, “You are forgiven,” and bends down to press a kiss against Kanafinwë’s shoulder.

They never kissed properly. It occurs to him belatedly, and he’s sorry for it. But the scene’s already over. Melkor doesn’t place much value in the afterglow. Until now, Eönwë hasn’t either. 

Now, everything is different. He gazes down at Kanafinwë, not wanting it to end, even though his cock is flagging and his lust is fading. Kanafinwë seems to be still recovering. 

Eventually, he rolls onto his side again. Brushing a few sweat-slicked hairs away from his face, Kanafinwë murmurs, “That was _amazing._ ” Eönwë can feel his cheeks heating. Obviously, Kanafinwë’s deemed their scene over. He looks up at Eönwë with new vigor. “I must admit, I expected something far more... clinical.”

Usually, it is. On most occasions, the experience has been oddly _professional_ for Eönwë, and while his body responded well enough, his mind would drift. Not here. He replies, “I apologize if I was too presumptuous.” 

Kanafinwë grins. It’s nothing like the sly smirks of Melkor and Mairon, but something thoughtful and almost sweet. He pushes gingerly up, sitting next to Eönwë on their soiled bed. His eyes flicker to Eönwë’s lips as he admits, “On the contrary... I hope we will have a sequel.”

Eönwë does too. Yet he has to confess, “Actually... this was to be my last appointment here...”

Kanafinwë’s face falls. He catches himself a second later, but that palpable disappointment lingers with Eönwë. “That is a pity. There is art in this, even if the execution is often thoughtless. But... I would be interested to know more about it. Perhaps... if you are not busy tonight... would you be able to enlighten me...?” The last part comes out hesitantly. It’s already late. They sky is dark beyond the windows, the city bright below. 

Yet Eönwë had no trouble answering, “I would love to.”

The genuine smile that grows across Kanafinwë’s face is enthralling. He invites, “A late dinner, then?”

Eönwë nods, then fetches Kanafinwë’s discarded robes. They retire together towards the cleaning facilities, leaving the cameras long behind.


End file.
